


The Raven and the Goldfinch

by LostinFic



Series: Any David Tennant character x Any Billie Piper character [18]
Category: Fright Night (2011), Spirit Trap (2005)
Genre: (I did not know that tag existed but it def fits), Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Childhood Friends to Lovers, F/M, Forbidden Love, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, Supernatural Elements, Teninch Fic, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-08-23 21:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16626464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostinFic/pseuds/LostinFic
Summary: Based on the movie The Illusionist. In turn-of-the-century London, the famous illusionist, Peter Vincent, must use his skills to reclaim the love of his life, Jennie, a woman he thought was lost to him. Now that he’s given a second chance, he won’t lose her again, not even when supernatural forces get in the way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: @ktrosesworld asked: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Hrmm Vamp!Rose with a HEA ... umm umm ... is that a stake in your pants or are you just pleased to see me ;) ... or wherever you muse decides to take you with smutty Peter Vincent.
> 
> I stretched that prompt as far as it would go, but I promise there shall be smut, a HEA, and that quote, but I tried writing it with Rose, and it wasn’t working.
> 
> Why this pairing? Peter Vincent witnessed his parents get killed by a vampire, but lived in denial of this until reality caught up with him in the movie. Jenny’s mother was a medium, but Jenny refused to believe it (just like her father, who left because of it) until she experienced her own encounter with ghosts in the movie. I think this similarity between their personal stories is interesting and a good starting point for a ship. (You really don’t need to know anything else about Jenny, in fact there isn’t much more to know, I made up all the rest.)

**The Sunday Herald, 31 October 1895**

A NIGHT OF MYSTERY. 

_Some Curious Facts Concerning All Hallow Eve._

_The Night When Maidens Try to Find Out Who Will Wed Them— A Curious Circumstance— Tricks Played._

_From its first origination, Hallow eve has been invested with a peculiarly mystic character. It is an almost universal superstition that supernatural influences then have unusual power— that devils, witches and fairies are abroad, that all spirits are free to roam through space, and that the spiritual element in all living humanity can be detached from corporeal restraint and made to road its own future or to reveal to others what fate may have in store for them._

_As there is nothing in the Church celebration of the ensuing day of All Saint's to justify these singular ideas and customs associated with Hallow eve, and none of them are of a religious character, we may justly regard them as relics of pagan times._

_In all ages and countries, Hallow eve has been deemed, as it still is, the occasion par excellence for devilling the answer to that momentous question which absorbs so large a share of the thoughts of romantic young men and maidens, "who is to marry whom?" The means employed to gain this much desired information are as quaint and curious as they are numerous and varied._

_Water, nuts and apples bear a prominent port in the spells and charms of Hallow eve. A quaint old book of charms, published in Edinburgh in 1070, entitled: "Old Father Time's Bundle of Faggots Newly Bound Up," declares that an infallible means of getting a view of your future husband or wife is to go to bed on Hallow eve with a glass of water, in which a small sliver of wood has been placed, standing on a table by your bedside. In the night you will dream of falling from a bridge into a river and of being rescued by your future wife or husband, whom you will see as distinctly as though viewed with waking eyes._

≑

Jennie hated All Hallow eve, but she loved a good party. 

She crossed the reception room to refill her glass of wine. Her black silk cape, shaped like bat wings, floated behind her. She pulled the hood over her blond curls, hoping to escape Lady Rothermere’s attention. But no such luck.

“Iphigenia, dear, I believe it’s your turn to play.” 

Thankfully, no one at this gathering, in London, knew of Jennie’s mother’s reputation or else they might have asked her to perform the same divination. Tonight, the guests’ interest in the permeability between worlds resided in predicting one’s luck in love rather than honoring Pagan gods of old. 

Still Jennie could not entirely enjoy the festivities for it reminded her too much of her mother’s lunacy. A terrible illness of the mind had afflicted the poor baroness until her death, she would hear voices and see strange things to which she lent some mystic signification. The superstitions surrounding October 31st used to worsen her symptoms, and those who believed she had a supernatural power would flock to Featherstone Hall. They only increased her suffering, and caused Jennie to flee her own home for the night.

Jennie’s plan for Lady Rothermere’s party was simple: avoid anything to do with spirits except the alcoholic kind. But peer pressure threw a wrench in that plan.

Jennie’s friends thrust an apple and a knife in her hands with excited giggles. The game involved going alone in a dark room in which there was only a mirror and a candle, then trying to peel an apple all in one piece. If successful, one’s true love’s face would appear in the mirror. 

“Why does she have to go? She’s already betrothed,” a girl pointed out, but the other ones were already pushing Jennie towards the door. 

Her friends shut the door behind her. Despite the candle flame, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to darkness. She sat on the floor in front of the small mirror propped against the wall, and started peeling the apple. The peel curled around her hand like a scarlet ribbon. Although, she didn’t believe in these silly games, she still applied herself to the task.

It would be a relief to see Richard’s face in the mirror, so that, despite her doubts and reluctance, she would know accepting his proposal would end happily. He was a decent man, willing to overlook shameful things about her family to acquire her father’s lands. And his fortune wasn’t uninteresting.

But in her heart of heart, she knew whose face she wished to see, a face she had not gazed upon in twelve years. 

Moving to the underside of the apple was the most treacherous part, especially in the dark. Almost there. She cut off the last inch of the peel with too much pressure, and the blade hit the pad of her thumb. It sliced through her skin. A crimson drop rose to the surface. 

The mirror shimmered. 

Jennie held her breath and looked closer. It was only fog on the glass. She wiped it with her sleeve, but it stayed there. The fog moved, like smoke from a pipe, it unfurled along the edges of the mirror in a rough oval shape. Then it started to clear from two points in the center, leaving two holes in the fog, like hollowed out eyes. Blood drained from her face as the smoke gathered in an increasingly precise shape. The shape of a skull. 

≑

The master of ceremonies introduced Peter Vincent to the crowd gathered in the Sofia Theater, in the Bulgarian capital. The illusionist waited for a few seconds, letting the anticipation rise in the public. Once the chatter died down, he walked swiftly through the curtains. Fog rolled under his leather frock coat as he crossed to the stage apron in long strides. He wore a pair of black gloves which he removed and tossed into the air above the spectators, where they turned into a pair of ravens that flew away. 

He bowed dramatically to the applause, then addressed the crowd in Bulgarian (a local friend had translated his text, though Peter was familiar enough with Slavic languages to understand most of the words).

“I thought we might begin this evening with a discussion of the Great Beyond. All of the greatest religions speak of the soul's endurance beyond the end of life. So, what then does it mean... to die? Tonight is a special night. A night when the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is lifted. Let us see, if we can cross this barrier between realms and call forth some spirits.” 

An assistant rolled a small table onto the stage. A paisley cloth covered it, and a crystal ball sat upon it, larger than normal to allow the audience a better view.

Peter stretched his long hands above the sphere, with each flourish of fingers, mist rose inside the crystal. The spectators had yet to be impressed, most squinted at the ball and exchanged comments, but Peter’s focus didn’t waver. The mist inside became more opaque, then turned from white to gray, to lilac and deepened to purple. Suddenly, the crystal cracked, a sharp pop of glass followed by gasps. The glass was cleaved and the fissure grew in a fractal pattern with that slow, spine-chilling creak. Pressure grew inside the ball, the smoke pressed against the edges. Everyone held their breaths, bodies tense, anticipating the explosion. The crystal ball shattered, and all the fog rushed out of it taking on ghostly forms that grew high above the stage. Three pairs of red eyes appeared, and then Peter was knocked off the stage.

He fell.

And he fell.

A never-ending descent. He landed under a bed, years earlier, knees to his chest, hands clapped over his mouth to keep his breathing and sobs silent. He heard his parents’ screams and that horrible gurgling noise. Hot tears ran down his cheeks. 

Then it stopped. They stopped kicking and screaming. His mother’s arm fell limply off the bed. The murderer stopped drinking and smacked his lips. 

The boy cracked open an eye. Blood dripped along the bedframe, thick and scarlet. Drip. Drip. A drop morphed into a raven and it perched on the headboard. The black bird turned to the child and spoke in a young girl’s voice. “Make us disappear.” 

Peter woke up with a gasp. 

“Are you quite all right, old sport?” asked his manager, Ingwer, sat next to him. 

“Yes. Of course,” Peter replied though his heart still hammered in his chest. “That lass after the show tired me out, that’s all.” 

He winked at Ingwer, who didn’t seem convinced, he twirled the end of his sandy mustache, looking Peter over. Peter turned away from his manager and towards the train window. It was night so it only returned his own reflection, blurry and immaterial, gossamer. 

It wasn’t uncommon for Peter to dream about a performance going wrong: a defective prop, a mocking audience or being stark naked on stage (though that often turned into a wonderful dream). But it had never morphed into a flashback to the night his parents died.

Peter reached inside his jacket for his good luck charm, a raven carved out of ebony, flat like a coin and not much thicker. Absentmindedly, he manipulated the object. He turned it between his knuckles, from thumb to pinkie and back, then made it disappear in one hand and reappear in the other. The wood was smooth from years of use, the varnish long gone. It soothed him. 

Not long after his parents’ death, a travelling showman had stopped in his hometown in Northern England. He’d performed a few magic tricks in exchange for a hot meat and ale, and like any eight year-old boy, Peter had been fascinated. The old magician had pulled a wooden raven from behind Peter’s ears. He’d hidden it between his palms, said a phrase in latin then blown on his hands, and a bird had flown out. 

“Nothing is what it seems,” he’d said. 

And Peter had thought, if one’s senses can be deceived so easily, then perhaps he had not really seen a monster that night, in his parents’ bedroom. 

Sensing the child’s sadness, the old magician had patiently taught him a few tricks. And Peter had never stopped after that. 

“We’ll be crossing into Serbia soon,” Ingwer said. 

“That’s two nights in Belgrade, then Sarajevo?”

“Yes. Then Budapest, Vienna, Innsbruck, Venice, Berne and Paris.” 

“I want to go to London.”

Though Peter had uttered the words casually, like a mere technicality, his manager’s pale eyebrows rose. 

“Erm, well, I have some contacts there, maybe we can arrange something for December or January…”

“No, I want to go now.”

“You haven’t set foot there in over ten years. Always refused offers. Why the sudden urge?” 

“I’m homesick,” he lied.

≑

**London Daily News, 20 November 1895**

PETER VINCENT’S FRIGHTFUL ENTERTAINMENTS

_Egyptian Hall, London._

_Saturday and Monday evenings. Doors open at 7:30; commences at 8 o’clock. Carriages at 10_. 

_For the first time in England: Peter Vincent in his Extraordinary Sorcelleries or Creatures of the Night._

_Peter Vincent’s astounding feats in natural magic are based on principles not within the power of any other Artist in the World, and declared by the Press to be of so singular a nature as to be past all human conception, and that in an age and country less enlightened, they would inevitably have appeared supernatural. Mr. Vincent who, alone, unaided by confederates, and without all ordinary apparatus, deceives the eye, amazes, bewilders, and baffles the keenest observers, will display his truly miraculous acquirements in Prestidigitation, which surpass everything hitherto presented to the Public, in fact exhibiting powers that seem impossible to be achieved by human agency._

_With regard to the moral bearing of the performance, it is only necessary to intimate that the Very Rev. Dean Stanley, in his sermon preached the act as it demonstrates the power of our Lord over Evil._

_The Proprietor feels justified in calling attention to the fact that no expense has been spared in this production. Endorsed by the entire Press as being most mystical, mirthful and marvelous._

≑

“And for my last feat, I need a volunteer,” Peter declared.

Spectators avoided eye-contact with him and shook their heads until a young man raised his hand. He walked from his seat to the stage with a smirk. A little shit who thought it was all a trick; Peter loved to scare them.

The illusionist uncovered a tall mirror and placed the young man in front of it. 

“What is your name, Sir?” 

“Walter Gardiner.” 

“Mr. Gardiner, if you would be so kind as to inspect this mirror and assure our dear spectators tonight that it is not tricked.” 

Walter walked around the mirror, inspecting its gilded frame and knocking on the back. 

“Now, do you see your reflection in this mirror, Mr. Gardiner?” Peter asked. 

“Yes.” He waved at himself. 

“And do you also see our esteemed audience behind you?” 

“Yes.” 

“And now you see me too in the mirror?” Peter placed himself behind the young man. 

“Indeed, I do.” 

With the help of an assistant, Peter turned the mirror around as well as Walter so that he had his back to the stage curtains, with the mirror between him and the crowd. 

“Keep your eyes on the mirror, Mr. Gardiner, and let me know if anything in the reflection changes.” 

“Righty-o.” 

Peter pulled on heavy silken ropes, and the green velvet curtains behind Walter parted. 

Loud gasps rippled through the theater. In the third row, a woman fainted. 

Walter laughed uneasily. “I don’t see the curtains anymore,” he said. 

“Anything else?” 

“No.” 

“Behind you!” shouted someone from the balcony. 

On the stage, three young women, all dark hair and pale blue skin, wearing only nightgowns had been revealed. They snarled at Walter, displaying long canines. Their shackles clanked as they lunged forward.

Mr. Gardiner scurried off the stage, and nearly broke his neck in the stairs. 

"Back, spawn of Satan!" Peter shouted, brandishing a crucifix. 

The three vampires retreated with loud hisses.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you my vampiresses!”

The audience applauded with some restraint. 

“It is well-known by the Slavs that certain dead persons possess the power of returning by night to molest the living, to suck their blood, and by such refreshment to continue their own terrestrial existence, at the expense of their victims. These creatures do not have a reflection in a mirror. 

But the worst part remains to be told: this faculty proves contagious; and those who have been sucked by a vampire, feel themselves condemned to become vampires, in their turn. 

I saved these poor girls from the power of their sire in a remote corner of Transylvania. Animal blood furnishes them with the means of subsistence.”

Spectators flinched and covered their mouths.

“Thanks to my powers, and the power of the Christ, I can control these creatures of the night and make an example out of them. A cautionary tale. So you might recognize them and not fall prey yourselves.”

Peter stretched his arms and hands towards the three wild women, his face scrunched up with effort.

“Thou shall rise from the dead.” 

A vein throbbed on his forehead. As he raised his arms, the three women slowly lifted off the floor and levitated high above the stage.

≑

As soon as he exited the stage, Peter collapsed. He didn’t even have the strength to remove the wig that scratched his scalp. 

As usual, Ingwer ran up to him with a flask of whiskey and a cool, damp cloth. 

In the theater, spectators were still applauding and talking loudly. Peter let their appreciation wash over him as he recovered from the exhausting performance. 

The theater’s director came up to him and announced the Earl of Westmorland was here and wished to speak with him. 

“Give me a minute,” Peter said. 

“The Earl will not wait that long.” 

With Ingwer’s help, Peter rose to his feet. They both knew the approval of the aristocracy could open many doors and make him a rich man. 

A group of people awaited him in the salon, the Earl at the center. He held his head high perhaps to compensate for his small stature. Generous sideburns covered part of his cheeks down to his jaw.

“Your lordship, may I introduce Peter Vincent, the Illusionist?”

“Fascinating demonstration,” the Earl said.

“Thank you. It’s not easy keeping these lasses under control.”

The Earl chuckled, but it wasn’t genuine. 

“It stimulated a great debate amongst us.” He gestured at his entourage. “Rainier here thinks you have supernatural powers? Do you claim supernatural powers?”

“Well, I can certainly do things on stage that mere mortals can’t.”

“Then you won’t mind a question or two. You needn’t divulge anything I cannot guess.”

“Shoot.”

“Mr. Gardiner was in league with you. Or there were lights in the mirror frame perhaps and angled mirrors.”

“I’m sure there are illusionists who would do it that way.” 

“I think I understand it all. Except the gloves turning into ravens at the beginning. Where did they go?”

“Right here.” Peter pulled his gloves out of his pockets, much to the amusement of the Earl’s entourage. “Maybe you will understand it next time. Another viewing?”

“You must come to St. James’s Park. We'll gather our best minds next time. You'll really have a challenge then. What do you think, Iphigenia, dear?”

The Earl turned to a woman sitting a little farther in the room.

When he saw her, Peter forgot to breathe. Those plump, pink cheeks, and that gorgeous mouth, but her golden eyes had lost their mischievous glint. 

Jennie. 

Peter’s heart swelled with hope. 

She was a woman now, and what a woman. The low neck and short sleeves of her elaborate green dress, showed off skin so creamy and fair he wanted to dip a spoon in it-- actually, to hell with a spoon, he would lick it. 

He kissed the back of her gloved hand more slowly than decency allowed. He didn’t miss the way her chest rose with a sharp intake of breath. 

She narrowed her eyes, and he realized she didn’t recognize him. 

The Earl put a proprietary arm around her, and Jennie smiled sweetly at him. Peter’s heart plummeted. 

“I shall like to see these creatures of the night for myself,” the Earl said. 

“Another time, perhaps. If you would forgive me, I must see to it that they cannot escape... And I need to go look for my birds.” 

He held Jennie’s gaze for a moment, hoping for some kind of acknowledgment, but her face betrayed nothing. She averted her eyes and clasped her hands.

Peter returned to his hotel with a lump in his throat. He discarded his wig and fake beard and loosened his neck tie. Only one thing would do to deal with this: _la fée verte_. He poured an inch of absinthe into a crystal stemmed glass and placed a slotted spoon across the rim with a sugar cube over it. He liked the ritual— at least for the first glass or two, then it was straight from the bottle— like a magic trick, positioning precisely each piece, then as he trickled cold water over the sugar, the liquid turned cloudy unlike his mind. Absinthe produced such a sharp sort of drunkenness, and his memories became that much more vivid: the green, dry scent of sawdust in his father’s workshop, the ribbed smoothness of a grosgrain ribbon between his finger, her laughter in bursts of light. 

≑

The first time they met, they were only children. Her straw bonnet hung crookedly over her messy blond curls, and blue ribbons floated beside her cheek. She introduced herself as Jennie, but he knew who she was: Iphigenia Goldfinch, daughter of the Baron. Her father owned most of the hamlet where they lived, a remote corner of Northumberland, between the Scottish border and the North sea. Peter worked for him. He was but a farm boy, having to earn his own living now that he was an orphan. Other children never spoke to him, they thought him a bit odd, and the circumstances of his parents’ death didn’t help.

“What are you doing?” she asked, watching him flip the wooden raven between his fingers.

“I’m looking for my bird,” he replied. “Do you think it’s in the bushes?” 

Jennie followed him to the edge of the forest. Peter picked a small purple flower. 

“Perhaps it made its nest amongst the petals.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

He struck a match and lit the flower. With a flourish of his hand, it vanished in a puff of smoke, and was replaced by a black feather. Her hand flew to her chest, followed by delighted laughter. He decided then and there to make her smile and laugh as much as possible.

They became inseparable. Jennie would bring him food and blankets, and whatever material he needed for his latest magic trick. She dreamt of becoming an actress, so they would put on elaborate performances. As they grew older, their act became more and more complex, lengthy skits with scenarios, costumes, decors and monologues heavily borrowed from Shakespeare. Sometimes for an audience, but more often for their own entertainment. She never asked for the secret behind his tricks, and sometimes he wouldn’t have known how to explain, cards floated in the air, handkerchiefs vanished and wilted flowers bloomed anew. 

The other peasants warned him to stay away from her. “If the Baron finds out…” they said. But neither of Jennie’s parents seemed to care. Her father was never home, always in London, allegedly on business. The baroness preferred the company of ghosts. Even at a young age, Peter wondered which was worse: that one’s parents had died or that they didn’t care about their child. They were both orphans in their own way. 

And so, Jennie and Peter sheltered each other from the harsh and confusing realities of the adult world. They surrounded themselves with magic and forgot all the rest. 

As Peter grew older, he began to understand what he’d been warned against. What they said he would want but couldn’t have. 

When she turned thirteen, her father hired a chaperone, and they had to find creative ways of meeting. An abandoned hut in the forest became their refuge after the chaperone had dozed off for the night. 

For his fifteenth birthday, she gave him his first kiss, and he promised they would always be together. 

For her fifteenth birthday, the baron came back to Featherstone Hall and announced his intention to take his daughter away to London. That night, Jennie ran to him with her jewels wrapped in a piece of cloth.

“We have to go!”

She was always more courageous than him. He hesitated for too long. Her father’s men came after them. They hid in their secret hut, huddled together in the cold night, as dogs sniffed and barked around.

“Make us disappear,” she begged. “Please, Peter, make us disappear.”

He tried.

He failed. 

He waited for her. 

But she never came back from London, and so, without an anchor, Peter drifted away.

≑

An insistent knock at his hotel door woke Peter up. His head hurt from too much absinthe. He’d slept the morning away. On the doorstep, he found a simple, handwritten note: “Meet me”. 

He quickly washed the smudged eyeliner off his face and changed out of last night’s clothes before heading out where a coach awaited.

The cold november wind whipped the tail of his coat about and he held down his hat as he stepped inside the carriage. It was empty. 

The carriage drove around for fifteen minutes, Peter rubbed up and down his arms, looking out the window for clues of his anonymous caller. He dearly hoped the message was from Jennie, but it wasn’t rare for some married women to seek him out after a show. His act thrilled them, reminded them that life was too short for a boring husband. 

They reached a busy thoroughfare. Peter huffed impatiently at being stuck in traffic. Suddenly, the carriage door opened and someone slipped in directly from the coach beside his. A woman in a garnet-red dress, a veil concealed her face. Peter put a foot up on the bench, sprawling with a cocky smile, a reflex in female company. 

When she lifted the veil, he recognized Jennie. Though the carriage was in motion, she had yet to sit. The feather on her hat wobbled and brushed against the ceiling. 

“Are you Peter McHoolihee of Northumberland?”

“The one and only.”

She inspected him with narrowed eyes. 

“It really is me, Jennie,” he assured her. 

She sat on the bench opposite him.

“No one has called me that in ages,” she said. 

She didn’t look as happy as he expected her to be. Staring down at her hands, she fidgeted with her wedding ring. The size of the gemstones was an unwelcome reminder of all the things Peter couldn’t buy her despite his fame. 

“How long have you been back in England?” she asked.

“Three days.”

“Why did you come back?” 

“I’d been gone long enough. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“Yes. Of course.” 

Although she’d learned to mask her emotions better, he recognized that slightly puckered forehead that belied her words. 

“So, you’re Peter Vincent now.” 

“And you’re a countess.” 

“Only since last week.” 

“I’m too late, then.” 

“Twelve years too late. At least your magic tricks have improved.” 

There was a bitterness to her tone he matched in his reply.

“So have your acting skills.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you must have done something to make an Earl want to marry below his station.” 

“Must you be so unpleasant?” 

“Must you be married?”

They outstared each other. The carriage creaked and horseshoes beat the gravel path, filling the silence. Jennie broke the staring first and looked out the window.

“What was I supposed to do?” she asked after a long moment. “I wrote to everyone in Featherstone for news of you, but you had left without a trace. I tried to find you.” 

“So did I. I went to London.”

“You did?” Her face broke into a grin. 

Since their first kiss, he’d learned how to seduce women, but now, one smile from her and he was a fumbling teenager again. His palms were clammy, and he couldn’t think of a single smart thing to say. Just like the courageous but naive seventeen year-old lad he had once been, the one who set out for London with only the clothes on his back and a literal ace up his sleeve.

But the city was much larger than he’d anticipated, and the sight of rich gentlemen-- the kind she may be presented to-- discouraged him. He found work on a cargo ship sailing to Denmark; if he traveled the world, educated himself and became rich, then he might be worthy of her. He roamed the Continent, taking odd jobs and performing magic tricks. But as he journeyed East, he started hearing legends of blood-sucking creatures, and his purpose evolved.

In Poland, he met Emily de Laszowska Gerard, a writer and literary critique. Scottish by birth, she took a liking to Peter and his skills, and hired him to work in her home. Her library contained many a book about myths and legends that they read together. When her husband, a Polish chevalier, twenty years her senior, was stationed in Transylvania, Peter followed them. Still officially a member of staff, but in fact, he and Emily researched the local vampire lore. She even published a book about Transylvanian superstitions the next year. She was the first person, after Jennie, to whom Peter revealed what he had seen kill his parents. She was also the first person, after Jennie, to kiss him. She was older than him by six years and taught him how to give a woman pleasure. They enjoyed each other’s company, but he didn’t love Emily as he had Jennie. Eventually, her husband found out about the affair and kicked him out. Armed with a new confidence and knowledge on two equally mysterious creatures— vampires and women— he started his life as Peter Vincent. 

He didn’t confess his insecurities and affairs to Jennie, only summed up that he hadn’t found her in London and then started travelling. 

“No wonder you could not find me in London. Father hired this dreadful tutor, and locked me up for hours with her so she might teach me everything a _lady_ should know.”

“So he might offer you to the highest bidder?”

She didn’t deny the allegation, but amended, “He wanted a better life for me, better than I had with Mother. But I did not want it.”

“I’m sure you managed to sneak out every once in a while.”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief and his stomach swooped. Even if she spoke like a proper lady, in his presence her northern accent and idioms resurfaced. And he laughed, still incredulous that the baron’s daughter was so bold, and that she even deigned talk to him. Him, a peasant boy. It felt like they had never been apart. As he spoke, he lost his cocky façade, and Jennie leaned towards him, elbows on knees. 

“I never escaped very far. Not as far as you did.”

“I crossed the continent. I saw Russia and the Ottoman Empire. Always searching… I learned about myths and the origins of faith and fear in men.” 

“And vampires?” 

“I saw what looked like the victims of vampires: illnesses that medicine has yet to explain, and corpses that decomposed in odd ways, but no real vampire. I must have imagined it all. It became inspiration for my show.” 

He switched seat to be next to her, his legs pressed against hers, but she didn’t move. Head cocked to one side, she openly studied him. He didn’t feel unrecognized by her anymore. Her honey-brown eyes warmed him more than the autumn sun shining on his stubbled cheek.

“All that wandering, did you ever find what you were looking for?” she asked.

“In some measure. But something was always missing.” He brought her hands to his lips, holding her gaze, and turned on the charm. 

Jennie chuckled softly. “I see you learned about more than folklore.” 

“Shall I demonstrate?” 

He scooted closer to her, Jennie instinctively leaned forward, smiling conspiratorially. 

“You may.”

He ran his hands up, from her wrists to her shoulders, and rested them on her neck. His thumb brushed her jaw, and her lips parted. He had dreamt of those lips. He kissed her as slowly as his weak restraints allowed. He needed her to think about this kiss for days and weeks to come. He needed her to blush every time she was with her husband, and take pleasure in tasting the memory on her lips. He kissed her deeply, adoringly, and feeling her melt against him was his reward.

Too soon, the carriage stopped.

“I have to go,” she said. 

Peter caught her arm to stop her, though his grip was light, she winced as if he’d hurt her which alarmed him.

“Rough honeymoon?”

“My husband is… mercurial.”

“Run away with me. I’m rich now.” 

“You think that ever mattered to me?” She swiped his fringe to the side and kissed his forehead, but the gesture was too forlorn for him to enjoy. “I wish I could-- there’s so much to explain... Richard would hunt us down.”

“Jennie…”

“Goodbye, Peter.”

“When can I see you again?” he pressed.

“I don’t know.” 

And she vanished into the street crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...  
> FYI, Emily de Laszowska Gerard really existed and her book on Transylvanian legends is one of the books that inspired Bram Stoker to write Dracula (which was published in 1897).
> 
> The two newspaper articles are based on real articles (sources: https://www.loc.gov/rr/news/topics/halloween.html and http://www.bl.uk/learning/timeline/item126847.html) 
> 
> I write educational fics, deal with it :P


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ktroses world wanted smut, so it begins (but there's still plot going on)

**The Bristol Commercial Chronicle, 29 November 1895**

ON VAMPIRES AND VAMPIRISM

_Lately, the conversation of private parties has frequently turned on the subject of vampires; and the discussion has been prolonged and invigorated by the pieces brought out at the theatres across Europe. Even in Paris, the French literari, whom nothing escapes, desirous of displaying their learning, have brushed off the dust of repose and oblivion from more than one story applicable to the matter of vampires. In London, vampirism has almost superseded politics in the journals, clubs and salons of the genteel society. The success of Mr. Peter Vincent’s Frightful Entertainments is no stranger to this phenomenon; his Nosferatus have inflamed the collective unconscious. He deserves attention, no less for his temporary interest, than for his peculiar character, as part of the history of the human mind. It is connected with notions of the most extensive and powerful influence._

_Last week, we reported on the presence of the Earl of Westmorland and his new bride, Countess Iphigenia (nee Goldfinch), at the premier of Mr. Vincent’s show at the Egyptian Hall. They had recently returned from the Austro-hungarian empire, where perhaps they were acquainted with such creatures of the night. Indeed, it is reserved for the ruder tribes of the north, and perhaps for those of the wilder parts of the East, to graft on the notion of re-appearance of the dead, that of malignity and delight in the suffering they had the power to inflict. It is a notion generally received among the Hungarians, that certain dead persons possess the power of returning by night to molest the living. We have it under good authority that a peculiar illness has struck the Westmorland household, and that the Earl has invited Mr. Vincent himself to his residence for a private performance._

≑ 

It was common for the rich and nobles of British society to own houses around the vast green expanse of St. James’s Park, and the Earl of Westmorland was no exception. Though he owned lands and a castle in the north of England, he needed a _pied-à-terre_ in London, so, for the season, he and Jennie lived in a large Georgian townhouse not far from Buckingham palace. The grey, smoke-smeared stones of the house surrounded by skeletal trees was a dreary sight on this November afternoon.

At the gates, Peter and his manager, Ingwer, were instructed to enter through the staff door. Neither the Earl nor, more importantly, Jennie, greeted them. 

As Peter followed the butler through the house, he deliberately slowed his walking pace and peered inside every room to catch a glimpse of her, but to no avail. As disappointed as he was, he understood she had to be careful in her own home. Since their secret meeting in the carriage, he’d thought of nothing but of her. It was maddening: they were in the same city but couldn’t see each other, and now in the same house yet she wasn’t in his arms.

Peter whistled in admiration when he entered the pompous great hall. A stage, built for his performance, occupied the back of the room under a large crystal chandelier. Peter snickered at the somewhat phallic shape of the chandelier.

“Do you think he’s compensating for something?” he asked Ingwer, elbowing him in the ribs.

Several portraits of the Earl himself adorned the walls in ostentatious gilded frames, along with ancestors and pastoral scenes in smaller frames.

Peter thought, if he owned this house and was married to Jennie, there would be nothing but portraits of her on the walls.

From every corner of the hall, marble statues of Roman gods watched as the servants arranged velvet-upholstered chairs in rows for spectators. Comparatively to the rest of the room, the stage was bare. Exposed. A challenge. One Peter was keen to take on to prove his higher intellect and skills to the husband of his beloved.

≑ 

From the minstrels’ gallery above the great hall, Jennie observed them enter. She hid behind the balustrade and peered between the marble pillars as he set up his equipment for the show. He kept glancing around, surely looking for her too. But for now, she had to stay away, there were too many people around, servants she didn’t know if she could trust, and the butler her husband had obviously instructed to keep an eye on Peter.

She bid her time by watching him work, he’d removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves to install a dark wood contraption at the center of the stage. 

So entranced was she by Peter, she jumped when she heard a whistle, like the twittering song of a bird. She hurried off the minstrel’s gallery. The trill echoed in the corridor, but she couldn’t locate its origin. 

Voices came from the foyer, then footsteps up the staircase, and she forgot about the bird.

“Iphigenia? Where are you?” Dorothy, her sister, called.

The twelve year-old girl was as dark as Jennie was blonde, skinny while Jennie was plump, and for a good reason: they weren’t from the same mother. Dorothy was the daughter of a prostitute their father saw regularly, she’d died in childbirth, and against all reason, he had kept the baby. However illegitimate, Jennie loved Dorothy like a real sister, and she was the main reason Jennie couldn’t run away with Peter. It would reflect poorly on her sister and ruin her chances at a happy future. The Earl, because he was well-acquainted with Jennie’s mother, was the only one who knew that she would have been too ill to bear another child. At first, his tolerance of Dorothy had made Jennie happy, now it made her wary.

Dorothy and their father, Baron Thomas Goldfinch, had come over for tea and would stay for Peter’s show. Thomas’ cheeks were rosy under his greying beard, healthier than ever now that his gambling debts had been cleared by the Earl. 

Jennie’s relationship with her father was ambivalent at best. For all intents and purposes, he had abandoned his wife in Northumberland, and Jennie held him responsible for her mother’s declining health and death, but he had a good heart nonetheless, as demonstrated by his care for Dorothy. And even if his interest in Jennie had laid mostly in acquiring wealth, he had never forced her to marry against her will. In fact, before Richard, she had turned down a few proposals, hoping for Peter’s return. Then, at 25, she was almost an old maid when the Earl started courting her. He was a widower, in his late thirties, and they’d been acquainted for some years already as his lands flanked those of her father’s. If only she’d held off just a little longer. 

The family sat in the conservatory on rattan chaises amongst potted palms. She didn’t have the green thumb of the Earl’s first wife and some plants wilted. The high windows offered a beautiful view of the lake in the park, but most importantly, Jennie could also see into the great hall.

Her father inquired after the peculiar illness reported in the society column of the newspapers. 

“One of our maids is so weak and pale she cannot work. We had to call in a physician, but he couldn’t make a definite diagnosis, and another girl is now feeling fainter as well. It is concerning, but the papers have exaggerated the story as they are bound to do.” 

Jennie served the tea, two sugars for Dorothy and a drop of milk for Thomas.

“Is that the new tea service you brought back from Vienna?” Dorothy asked.

Sinuous, organic lines reminiscent of flower stalks and insect wings decorated the porcelain set.

“They call this style _Sezessionstil_. Richard thinks it’s too modern, but he admits I’m the artist, and I love it.”

She told her father and sister about the honeymoon in Austria-Hungary where they had visited the Earl’s family. She spoke with more passion about the beautiful mountains and architecture than about her new husband. Thankfully, they’d changed subject when Richard joined them. He sat down next to Jennie. When he put his hand on her leg, she had to exert phenomenal self-control not to recoil. Aspects of his appearance that hadn’t bothered her before, such as his bushy sideburns and fat hands, now repelled her. Every minute spent with him felt like a betrayal to Peter, even more so now they stood under the same roof.

“I have to go,” she said suddenly as she sprang to her feet.

"Where? We are all here, my dear.”

“I, erm, I have to… give the staff instructions for the reception. A lady of the house’s work is never done.”

She walked to the door with measured steps, but hurried as soon as she was out of the conservatory.

This morning, she’d chosen a cornflower-blue dress, reminiscent of her childhood’s skies, and so as she walked, she unpinned her hair, letting it fall loose down her back as a young girl would wear it. She wished she could be that child again, free of responsibilities and concerns about her family, wrapped in that magical world that only she and Peter inhabited.

She didn’t see Peter in the great hall, and knew he’d retired to the makeshift greenroom she’d had set up in the adjacent boudoir. Though a feminine room by definition, Jennie rarely used it as it held many mementos of the Earl’s first wife.

Peter didn’t notice her entrance. She’d become quite adept at avoiding attention, walking on tip toes to prevent the clanking of heels, only the quiet ruffle of taffeta might give her away. He was in the middle of putting on his costume, braces dangling off his breeches. She spoke quietly so as not to startle him or be overheard, “I used to do that for you.” She pointed at the kohl on the vanity, similar to the one she once stole from her mother.

He beamed at her, then sat on the edge of the table so they would be eye-level. She stepped between his legs. He closed his eyes and let her gently glide the stick of kohl across his eyelids.

“You used to shake like a leaf before a show,” she said, though her own hand was unsteady right now.

“It was not the show that made me nervous, it was you being so close to me.”

He opened his eyes and his copper brown pupils were even more striking with the dark lines. Despite the faint wrinkles that now surrounded his eyes, she saw in them her best friend, the magical boy with whom she’d fallen in love so long ago. However, the feelings that gaze stirred in her now, were not as innocent as they used to be.

He put his hands on her sashed waist, drawing her closer.

“These last days have been a real torture,” she confessed, “knowing you were in London and I couldn’t see you.”

“For me too.”

She touched his chest where his white shirt gaped, but glanced nervously over her shoulder. With a hand on her cheek, he brought her eyes back to him.

“My Jennie.”

Her chest heaved with a sigh, and she pressed her lips to his.

The kiss they’d exchanged in the carriage had been short, but she’d thought about it so much a yearning had built inside of her, growing stronger every day.

The taste of his mouth, the scent of his skin, his fingers spanning her waist, it all made her head spin. She wished there had only ever been him in her arms.

She deepened the kiss, fisting his shirt and opening her mouth in invitation. His arms wrapped around her waist, holding her tight. His lips moved to her jaw and down her neck, and she canted her head to grant him access to her throat. His goatee scratched her skin. His mouth traveled lower down her neckline. His teeth pressed lightly in the swell of her breast. She gasped but it wasn’t unpleasant, on the contrary. She encouraged him to continue, running her fingers through his hair, grabbing handfuls. His tongue sneaked under the lacy edge of her waist shirt just as his hands searched for the fastenings. 

Jennie was faster, opening his breeches and slipping her hand inside. He hissed when she palmed his warm flesh. His movements faltered. 

Jennie caressed him tentatively. Full of hesitation, she searched his face for signs of pleasure. A string of curses gave her the confidence she sought.

“Watch your mouth in the presence of a lady,” she teased.

“Then give me something to do with my mouth.”

She let him open her waistshirt and corset cover, exposing more of her breasts which he promptly covered with hungry kisses.

“Have you ever thought about me touching you in such a way?” she whispered.

“Many, many times.”

She opened his breeches wider. She wanted to see his cock, see her hand wrapped around it, see it throb thanks to her touch. It wasn’t mere curiosity, but a primal sort of satisfaction she sought.

“Have you thought about me too?” he asked in return.

“Yes.”

“Let me see you.”

She stopped him going further. She wore too many complicated layers to undress and redress quickly if they were caught.

“If you won’t show me, then tell me.”

“I wished for your body. For your mouth.To soothe this burning in me no other man can.”

“I will soothe it, then revive it, again and again.” He spoke the words, hot against her neck.

He closed his hand over hers to make her pump harder. His knee pressed into the front of her skirts, she jerked her hips.

“I wished for your hands,” she said.

“What about them?”

“The way they move during a magic trick. So agile. It inflames one’s imagination.” 

He thrust into her fist, she used her second hand, twisting over the head of his cock.

“Fuck, Jennie…”

She covered his mouth with hers and swallowed his groan of release. 

He’d barely caught his breath, that he was gathering up her skirts. She was too turned on to stop him. To hell with getting caught. 

A flower vase fell and crashed to the floor. They jumped apart and stared at the pieces of porcelain scattered at least three feet away from them. How had it fallen?

“Did you hear that?” she asked. “The whistle.”

“No.”

Peter tucked his member back into his breeches, and Jennie cleaned her hands with a handkerchief.

Just then, someone knocked at the door. Jennie quickly hid behind a screen and Peter opened the door. It was the butler, bringing him refreshments. He noticed the broken vase, and Peter took the blame, then a maid was sent in to clean it up.

“I think that butler wanted more than offer me a glass of water, he’s been on my heels all day. He could’ve caught us in the act,” Peter declared after they’d gone.

Jennie nestled in his arms, and he rubbed her back to soothe her nerves.

“Maybe your husband’s suspicious because you wanted to invite me here.”

“It was his idea.”

“So, he’s not aware we know each other?”

“No. He would hate that… I’m still not certain why he did invite you.”

“You’re worried?”

“I cannot get the measure of him. I thought I knew him before the wedding, but since we came back from Austria…” She shook her head. “On the one hand, he liked my mother.”

“What?”

“You know… her gift.” Jennie rolled her eyes. “He wanted to communicate with his deceased father, and my mother, she just told him what he wanted to hear.”

“So, he’s gullible.”

“But also very proud.”

“He’s full of himself, he is. What are you getting at?”

“Just please, don’t do anything to ridicule him tonight. A wounded ego is a dangerous thing in such a man.”


	3. Chapter 3

Thirty guests or so filed into the great hall, all dressed to the nines, some of them already inebriated. The room was abuzz with excitement. Thrilled by the promise of the supernatural. Since arriving in London, Peter’s reputation had exploded. His run at the Egyptian theater was an overnight success. Spectators were eager for his own brand of scary theatrics.

The door was ajar and Peter surveyed the room, searching for Jennie. Gone were her simple blue dress and loose tresses of this afternoon, one might say she was in a costume too, disguised as the Countess of Westmorland in a golden yellow dress with large puffing sleeves and black ribbons, her blond hair in an intricate updo. She smiled and greeted her guests. But every once in a while, she looked backstage where she knew Peter was.

The Earl, in equally regal clothes, stepped on the stage to introduce the illusionist. “My guest tonight is not a showman at all, but rather a wizard who has sold his soul to the devil in return for unholy powers… Or so at least some of our friends here would have us believe. But fear not. Everything _can_ and _will_ be explained. All mysteries penetrated.”

Servants extinguished half the lights in the room.

Peter stepped on the stage to light applause and excited murmurs. He brought with him a simple easel and canvas. He mimed painting, dipping an invisible brush on an invisible pallet he held in the air. As he moved his hand in front of the blank canvas, shades of blue appeared, and a shape became discernible. A head and hair, then features that sharpened.

In the crowd, someone shouted, “It’s the old Earl!”

Indeed, the portrait quite resembled one on the wall.

“A fair likeness to my father,” the Earl said.

“I'm afraid painting is not my strongest suit,” Peter replied.

The Earl stepped on stage to take a closer look at the canvas.

“There are no brushstrokes in this painting. I can see that clearly. So to achieve the color... some sort of chemical must be interacting, presumably. Some sort of sprayer up your sleeve? May I?”

“If you feel you must.”

“I do.”

He inspected Peter’s hand and arm, patting his sleeve for some hidden mechanism.

“Oh, let the man do his show,” a spectator said.

“You want me to just sit there when it's so obvious?”

“I do.”

“He tries to trick you. I try to enlighten you. Which is the more noble pursuit?” the Earl asked the audience.

But no one answered as their attention was grasped by the canvas that had begun to move. The portrait morphed as if the paint was dripping until it looked like a decomposing head. The pupils disappeared, leaving two dark hollows, and the flesh took on the look of goop. Gasps echoed in the great hall.

“That is disgusting,” the Earl said, and returned to his seat.

“We are all equals in death. There is no beauty to it. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Rot to rot. Perhaps there would be more grace in simply vanishing.”

Ingwer rolled a cabinet on stage, about six feet tall, the front painted so as to look like a coffin.

“Tonight, I propose to turn someone into a ghost.”

He opened the front door of the cabinet, red velvet lined the inner walls. Then he opened the back door, so that the audience could see right through it. He invited the Earl on stage to inspect it.

“No tricks, no traps. Is that not right?”

“None that I could find,” the Earl answered reluctantly, then returned to his seat.

“Your ladyship, if you would be so kind as to assist me.”

The Earl shot him a warning look. Peter offered Jennie his hand to help her on stage.

When they had their backs to the crowd, he whispered, “Do you remember this?” She gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

“If you would please step inside the box.”

She did with his help and laughed nervously, and only he knew it was fake. He closed the back door, then the front one. He said some phrase in Romanian, and when he opened the front door, the box was empty. A gasp traveled across the crowd. Then Peter moved around the box and opened the back door, thus showing that she wasn’t hidden behind it.

In fact, Jennie was hiding on the side of the box, but the open front door concealed her. When he closed the back door she returned behind it, allowing him to close the front door without exposing her.

“And now, I shall disappear too,” Peter declared.

He locked himself inside the cabinet. The spectators looked closely, straining their ears for any hint as to what was going on.

A minute passed, then two, and the Earl grew impatient.

Inside the box, Jennie had returned through a trap in the back door, and found herself very close to Peter. He didn’t waste a second to grab her face and kiss her. She didn’t try to stop him, the thrill of doing this with everyone in the room waiting for them made her heart run. She opened her mouth seeking his tongue, and nearly knocked off his wig.

“It’s taking too long,” she whispered.

He cupped her cheeks and rested his forehead on hers. “I can make us disappear,” he pleaded.

“Not now.”

He growled low in his throat and kissed her again, a quick, but firm peck on her lips before moving lower. He bit her between her neck and shoulder, not as gently as earlier in the boudoir but with the intent of marking her.

He escaped through the trap door at the back. Jennie took a second to compose herself and opened the front door. The look of confusion upon her face made everyone laugh.

“Where is Vincent?” the Earl demanded.

Before she could stop him, he ran on stage and looked behind the box. But Peter wasn’t there, Jennie had no idea where he was. He had definitely improved his tricks. She remembered a time, when he would crawl across a floor littered with hay to hide as she tried to keep their audience’s attention on her with silly pirouettes. 

Jennie pretended to lose consciousness, but her husband didn’t come to her help, still looking for the illusionist. She was revived with smelling salts, and Peter reappeared at the back of the room. With smoke trailing under his long coat, he walked swiftly up the alley parting the seats. He bowed to the applause then moved on to his next trick. 

With a lace shawl, Jennie hid the mark left by Peter, she pressed her fingers over it, enjoying the sensitivity.

After the show, spectators gathered around Peter to congratulate him. The Earl, however, stayed away, and glared from a distance, arms crossed over his chest. Jennie remained at his side, ever a doting wife, or so it would appear to people who didn’t know her as well as Peter did. She was pondering. She’d said “not now”, not “never”.

The Earl announced he was going to the smoking room for cigars, a few men followed, and Peter was invited to tag along. Jennie nodded her head slightly to indicate he should go in. 

It was a cozy, masculine room. Peter reclined in a soft leather armchair and took his time choosing a cigar from the selection displayed by the butler. Bear skin rug at his feet, fire crackling in the hearth, twelve year-old scotch in his glass, he could get used to this lifestyle.

Peter was the center of attention, the men asked about his time in Eastern Europe, superstitions, politics, women, though it was the secrets behind his illusions they really wanted to ask about. 

Considering their inquiries, Peter swirled the scotch around in his tumbler, it was the color of Jennie’s eyes; if he wished to ever be invited in this home again and see her, he knew he had to lick the Earl’s boots. 

He took a deep breath and plastered on a roguish smile.

“Alright, you nearly caught me, your lordship.”

“How so?”

He pulled a mechanism out of his sleeve, an atomizer as the Earl had guessed during his first trick. All the men laughed, some congratulated the Earl. Peter explained that he had painted a canvas of unbleached muslin with sulphate of iron and of copper as well as nitrate of bismuth which become invisible when dry, but reappear once sprayed with a solution of prussiate of potash.

“An illusionist must be a chemist as well as a storyteller,” Peter said.

“And a liar,” the Earl replied.

“People want to be lied to when they come to my show. It’s an unspoken contract between the performer and his audience.”

He and Peter held each other’s gaze across the room for a moment, then the Earl laughed and the tension in the room dwindled.

“But how did it turn into a cadaver?” another man asked.

“The passage of time, as for everything.”

They pressed him with questions, and Peter explained the secrets behind popular magic tricks, but not his own. He was adamant, however, that vampires were real-- his livelihood depended on it. The butler poured another round of scotch, cigar smoke lingered like fog in the room and raindrops drummed against the window panes. And Peter regaled them with frightful tales of young maidens snatched from their homes, blood-drained cattle and corpses impaled on iron rods.

When the men finally left the smoking room, the scent of cigar firmly imprinted on their clothes, Jennie was waiting for them.

“Are you not in bed, dear?”

“Not whilst we still have guests.”

She put a gentle hand upon her husband’s arm (the same hand she’d slipped into his own breeches, Peter noticed). As they walked the men to the front door to see them off, Jennie talked to the Earl, her voice just loud enough that Peter might eavesdrop on their private conversation.

“The truth is, I’m still up because I have been so worried about poor Maria. I visited her again, and the girl’s health has not improved. She trashes in her bed from the fevers, you would think she’s _possessed_.”

 _Oh, she’s good_ , Peter thought. He pretended to look for something in his pockets to stay behind until the Earl figured out the suggestion Jennie had planted in his mind.

“I have an idea,” the Earl finally said. “Mr. Vincent, since you are so knowledgeable about the undead, perhaps you might take a look at our maid.”

“She is suffering greatly but it leaves the doctors baffled and I fear she might be under the spell of some monster,” Jennie added in her best distressed voice.

Peter followed them to the staff quarters in the attic. In a shabby single bed, rested a woman, pale as the moon, her dark hair flat with sweat.

He wasn’t sure what Jennie had in mind, but he went along. If there was one thing he’d learned from his travels and research across Eastern Europe, it was that vampire legends often hail from diseases that have yet to be explained by science.

He touched the maid’s cheek and inspected her neck. He was not a little surprised to find two marks by her jugular.

“This poor woman is obviously the victim of a cruel monster. Was she with you in Austria-Hungary?”

The Earl looked at his wife, he wasn’t the kind of man who could tell one maid from the other.

“Yes she was.”

“When I was in Vienna, I witnessed the work of vampires in town. They will often attack travelers or poor people. As these people will not be missed at least for some time and it’s more inconspicuous.”

The Earl scoffed. “Really, Vincent? This takes the biscuit. You just told us yourself of the deception behind your show.”

“I may use gadgetry for some of my acts, but I assure you I’m an expert in vampirism. We need to find the creature draining her life force.”

“So what is the solution? A stake through the heart, is it not?” The Earl grabbed the iron poker by the fireplace, and wheeled it high above his head. Peter yelped and protected himself. But he was aiming for the maid’s chest. Jennie caught his arms and wrestled the poker out of his hands.

The poor maid was too weak to do more than turn on her side and sob.

“This is ludicrous, and I will not stand for it in my home. Iphigenia, get Mr. Vincent out of my sight,” he barked.

Jennie took Peter’s arm and led him away. She was shaking. In her haste, she nearly tripped on the hem of her opulent gown.

“He would have killed her,” Peter whispered.“Jennie?”

“Not now.” She pushed Peter out in the rain and closed the door in his face. 

Richard’s boots stomped down the stairs. “Is that charlatan gone?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Why did you have to bring up the maid?”

“I— I don’t know. I was worried. If there are some supernatural forces at play...”

Richard clucked his tongue, then spoke in a false honeyed voice, “My pet, the only supernatural force here is supposed to be you.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the study. His face was red with drink and fury. “When will you master your mother’s powers?”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder!” he shouted.

He shoved her inside the study and slammed the door behind her. 

Jennie closed her eyes and knocked her head back against the wooden door. Tears gathered in her eyelashes and slid down her cheeks when she blinked.

“Oh Mother, why did you have to make up these stories?” 

She dabbed her eyes with a corner of her shawl and slumped down in one of the wingback chairs. On the coffee table in front of her, were all manners of books, leaflets and grimoires on medium and the spirit world. She kicked the table and they fell off.

She stared at the dying embers in the fireplace.

No doubt the former Lady Goldfinch had had good intentions when she’d intimated to the Earl that her daughter was destined to inherit her psychic powers. But Jennie refused to lie about having powers, like her mother had, it had caused her family too much heartache. And if she happened to hear or see strange things sometimes, well, there was always a rational explanation. Like that bloody whistling…

“Where are you?”

She rose from the chair and lit a candle. She paused in the middle of the room, holding her breath to hear every sound. The whole house creaked with the wind and echoed with the footsteps of servants. The rain beat against the windows, and it took a moment before she realized there was another beat too, a knocking but not on the door. Jennie’s mouth went dry. The thudding returned. The window on her right. She approached carefully. A face appeared. 

“Good lord!”

She opened the window, and Peter clumsily slipped in. He discarded his drenched hat and coat to the floor.

“I was too worried to leave you,” he said.

He hugged her tight. On his shirt, the clear scent of rain mingled with the earthy one of exotic cigars. Peter caressed her hair, and she melted against him.

He shouldn’t be here, it was dangerous, but she couldn’t bring herself to push him out the door once more. Since her wedding, everything had moved so fast, she’d discovered Richard’s true nature and found her long lost love, but had no one to confide in. She desperately needed some solace. 

“Do you love your husband?” 

She tilted her head back to look into his eyes. “How could I when my heart is so full of another?”

“Then why stay?”

“We cannot talk here.”

“Then we won’t talk.” He cupped her cheek and kissed her. 

Oh, but her body was a treacherous thing. She ached for him. She pushed her hips against his. Never releasing her mouth, he walked them back against the door. The tiniest moan escaped the back of her throat, and Peter pulled back, breathing hard, his hands each side of her face. One eyebrow arched knowingly. 

His palms followed the curves of her corset and hips. She didn’t stop him when he started gathering up her abundant skirts. He bundled them around her hips and, with a sinful smile, dropped to his knees. Jennie’s face flushed red, from her cheek to her neck . 

“Pe-- Oh!”

Through the thin cotton of her drawers, his rain-cooled nose teased the warm skin of her inner thighs. His hot breath followed, leaving an ascending trail of kisses. He bit into the fleshiest part, and Jennie had to clamp a hand over her mouth. 

He started again on the other leg, but slower this time, every press of his lips lingering, as heat swirled low in her stomach. Her chest heaved in the confines of her corset.

Finally, his mouth reached the apex of her thighs and its warmth radiated through her entire body. With his tongue, he sought the slit in her drawers. His first licks were light. With each swipe, she could feel herself growing slicker embarrassingly quick. When he flicked her clit, her eyes rolled back in delight. She bit into her fist to muffle her moans. Everything was his tongue. She’d never felt anything so wonderful.

He stopped. Her jaw dropped in outrage, but he winked then dropped her skirts over his head. His finger teased her entrance until she bucked her hips for more. His hands, now freed, worked with his agile tongue to bring her to new heights of arousal. 

Jennie raised her skirts again, she flattened the bundle of golden fabric over her chest to see him, his dark hair and mirthful black-rimmed eyes. The way he feasted on her, with such pleasure and abandon, mesmerized her. His sleight of hand robbed her of any rational thought. His fingers stroked and beckoned. She let her mind go blank. She forgot everything around her except Peter.

He sealed his lips around her clit and sucked, his fingers pistoned in and out of her. She arched off the door, one hand fisting her skirts as the other delved in his hair. Pleasure swelled in her belly. Her legs shook. She bit her bottom lip to the blood. Then the burst came.

When she opened her eyes, she was on the floor. Peter wiped his mouth and beard on her petticoat. He was smiling, of course. She grabbed him by the cravat and pulled him in for a kiss. 

Once she recovered her strength, Jennie grabbed a fountain pen from the nearby coffee table and tore a page from a book. On it, she scribbled a date and a place where they could meet to talk.


	4. Chapter 4

_**The London Post, 13 December 1895** _

_In other news, we reported two weeks ago that a peculiar illness had struck the Westmorland household. We have it under credible authority that, not only has one of their maids died when no medicine could cure her, but the countess Iphigenia herself is now suffering from the same symptoms. She has rescinded many invitations and cancelled social engagements. Naysayers like to remind us of the fate that befell the Earl’s first wife. But the most superstitious among us favour the supernatural hypothesis. Is a vampire preying on the London gentry?_

≑

The stagecoach careened along the roads, leaving tracks in the fine coat of snow. At six o’clock, night had already swallowed London. 

Peter toyed with his wooden raven. He twirled it from one finger to the next, then onto the left hand. It disappeared down his sleeve and reappeared in the right palm.

He’d last seen Jennie a week ago, but newspapers had kept him informed of her condition when he couldn’t go to her.

In front of the Earl of Westmorland’s house, Peter paid the driver and walked to the front door. With each step, the knot in his stomach tightened.

“Vincent, finally..”

“You asked to see me, your lordship.”

“It’s about my wife, she’s very sick as you may have read in the papers.”

The Earl walked down the corridor, crooking his fingers at Peter so he would would follow.

“Indeed, I did. But I am no physician, I don’t see how I can help.”

“I know, I know. But I need you to put these rumours to rest. Rumours of vampires.” He scoffed. “If you say she’s sick of natural causes, people will believe you.”

In the bedroom, the sight of Jennie gutted him. Her skin was ashen and clammy, her lips had lost their color. Thin blue veins marbled her eyelids and hands. He had to reign in his instinct to rush to her side, the Earl still didn’t know about their acquaintance. He didn’t seem half as disturbed as Peter by his wife’s illness, more annoyed.

“People are talking,” he said. “They have lost their minds because of your show.”

“Well, that is no fault of mind.”

“They say she’s… under some spell. You must say publicly that your theatricals are all an act. 

And announce that my wife is under no such spell.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“May I?” Peter gestured towards Jennie. 

He approached the bed as he had never approached another woman’s bed before-- carefully. When his fingers neared the high collar of her nightgown, she recoiled and hissed at him.

“Your ladyship, I must take a look.”

He tried a second time, he lowered the collar enough to reveal a dark mark between her neck and shoulder. His eyes widened in shock.

“Her life is being sucked out of her. Can you not see it, you lordship?”

The Earl rocked on his heels. “Well, hum, I admit this is all rather peculiar.”

“And your maid, the one you showed me the other day,” Peter said.

“She died. It’s obviously some contagion.”

“Yet you are not ill.” Peter squinted his eyes at the Earl. “Unless you are the cause—“

“I will hear no such thing!”

“Where is the maid buried? If she died of natural causes then her body should have decomposed as any other.”

“If it is, then you will announce you are a fraud and put these rumours to rest?”

Peter hesitated, but if that was what it took. “There is only one way to find out. Where is the maid buried?”

Torches in hand, Peter followed the Earl outside. They grabbed shovels and axes from a shed and crossed the backyard. Their boots stamped the fresh snow, smudging the pure white with mud.

Because of the rumours in the newspapers, the two nearest cemetery had refused to take the body. Since the maid had no family that they could find, she had been buried at the far end of the backyard.

Three marble headstones stood by the undergrowth at the edge of the property, they were dedicated to the Earl’s hunting dogs. A small cross made of rotting planks nailed together marked the maid’s resting place. The soil above the coffin was still upturned and loose, though congealed from the cold.

Standing in the small circle of light provided by the lanterns, Peter and Westmorland dug. 

It wasn’t long before their shovels hit the wooden coffin. Whoever had buried her had done it hastily or carelessly, a shallow grave with the top of the coffin ajar-- which worked in Peter’s favour.

“There is soil in her coffin, even on her hands.” Peter lifted her arm, it was limp. “No rigor mortis.”

And now, for the _coup de grâce,_ Peter brought the lantern closer to the corpse’s head: a dark red substance stained the corners of her mouth. 

The Earl covered his mouth with his handkerchief, his eyes bulged, sweat beaded on his forehead.

“But he said… Not her too...” the Earl mumbled. He lunged towards Peter and shook him by the lapels of his coat. “You should have let me kill her the other day!”

“Stop! You can still save your wife. Act swiftly before the vampire awakes.” 

He pointed at the axe. 

The Earl let go of Peter and grabbed the axe. Without a moment of hesitation, he swung it high and severed the corpse’s head. His promptness sent an icy chill down Peter’s spine. 

Peter glanced at Jennie’s window-- it was open.

“Good man. We must go now and save the countess before it’s too late.”

The house was eerily silent, the servants nowhere to be found, avoiding whatever was happening here like animals who sense a storm coming. Well, they were right.

In the bedroom, Jennie wasn’t weak anymore, but standing by the open window, hair and nightdress billowing in the cold wind. She looked powerful. Magnificient. 

The Earl and Peter stayed in the door frame, with the bed as a barrier between themselves and Jennie.

“Iphigenia, my dear--”

“Don’t you dare call me ‘dear’ after the way you have treated me. You’re too late, Richard. And it’s all your fault”

“But how is it possible?”

“Just like your first wife.”

“She was ill.”

“And why was that?”

“I don’t know what you are insinuating.”

“Yes you do. She was ill but you hurried things along, didn’t you? I will not suffer for you, Richard. You wanted me to have powers, well watch this.” 

Smoke and sparks burst at her feet, obscuring her, and a raven appeared where Jennie had been. The bird flew out the window. 

“We must catch her,” Peter said, rushing out of the room.

They ran after the raven across the backyard, but lost sight of it. Peter insisted they kept looking for it, they couldn’t let a vampire loose in London, it was their duty to prevent it from hurting other people.

“This is lunacy. What are you up to, Vincent? I have seen you make things vanish off the stage. This must be one of your tricks.” 

“How? You invited me to your house. I was standing right beside you the whole time. I even came into the bedroom after you.”

“I-- I don’t understand… He would have told me...” 

“Do you suspect treachery from your new wife, your lordship? Perhaps you know a reason why she would want to run away from you so soon after the wedding?”

The Earl bristled at the suggestion. He jutted out his chin and adjusted his hat. “Let’s keep looking.”

They searched the area of St. James’s Park, calling her name, shaking trees and holding oil lamps up to every wall. 

Less than an hour later, the Earl already suggested they abandon the hunt. Proof, if any was needed, of how little he cared about Jennie. 

Panting heavily, the Earl sat on a stone bench and wiped his forehead. Peter drank from a flask and offered a sip to the other man.

“What will I tell her family?”

“The same thing you told your first wife’s family, I presume,” Peter replied.

The Earl glared icily at him, and Peter regretted his quip.

“We shall never speak of this again.”

“It’s of no concern to me. Three more shows and I will be out of England.”

“Good.” The Earl emptied the flask.

“I will keep looking,” Peter declared, “these creatures are too dangerous.”

“As you wish.” 

Peter sighed in relief at the Earl’s departure. 

He continued to roam St. James’s park, then returned to his hotel in Pimlico, but not in a straight line. He turned left and right at random, still pretending to search for the vampire, but mostly making sure he wasn’t being followed.

Inside his hotel room, all the curtains were drawn, only a candle afforded some light. 

Fabric rustled to his right. A dark hooded figure awaited him. He grabbed an antique chalice from his anti-vampire arsenal.

“Back, spawn of Satan!”

The black cape fell to the floor, revealing Jennie. She hissed at him, then very deliberately licked her upper lip, and pressed the tip of her tongue against her canine. He watched her, mesmerized, as she walked predatorily towards him.

When she licked a long line up his throat, he groaned. She pressed her body against his and asked in a sultry voice, “Is that a stake in your trousers or are you happy to see me?”

She dragged her fingers down the buttons of his waistcoat, then over his pelvis, and he bucked into her palm.

“Very, very happy.”

She broke character with a wide grin. “Me too. I’m free!”

Peter picked her up by the waist and twirled her around, both of them laughing, delirious with happiness. 

When he put her down, Jennie was slightly dizzy and wobbled on her feet, knocking a bird cage. She remembered that in her haste to leave the house, she’d completely forgotten to bring back Peter’s raven. He didn’t worry about it, his bird would find its way-- it knew where the food was.

“You really performed that illusion like a pro. You completely fooled Westmorland.”

“I learned from the best,” she said with a coquettish smile.

“Clever girl. Maybe we will be a double act.”

“Like we were always meant to be.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then his fingers curled over her cheek. His gaze was 

soft and full of love. “ _Draga mea_.” 

“What does it mean?” 

“My darling, in Romanian.”

“ _Draga_ ,” she repeated. “It sounds like dragon.” 

“Even better for tonight you were fierce. Let me taste your fire.” 

She giggled against his lips. 

“Maybe you will find scales under my clothes and a tail under my skirts.” 

“I had better look, then, and make sure you are human.”

He pulled on the lace at the front of her dress, wrapping it around his index finger until the dress opened. Jennie removed it, along with her bustle and discarded the items carelessly.

He undressed her slowly. With every layer removed, he pretended to inspect her body for dragon scales. She couldn’t stop laughing at his antics. 

When she had only her chemise left, Jennie shivered, the room was quite cold and the candle almost finished. Peter lit and stoked the fireplace. A warm orange glow filled the room. The light from the flames highlighted Jennie’s silhouette under her thin chemise.

Peter undressed to his black silk pants and sat on the wide wing-back chair. He crooked his finger to invite Jennie over. She sat in his lap, head on his chest, feet dangling off the side of the chair. He wrapped a blanket over them, waiting for the room to warm up. 

For the first time since they’d reunited, there was no time limit, no hurry, no fear of getting caught, they could bask in this simple moment.

Last week, they had met in secret at her father’s house. They needed to discuss how to escape the Earl but also inform her father and sister of the plan so they would know if Jennie disappeared, she was, in fact, safe with Peter. Her father’s home hardly afforded any intimacy for the two lovebirds, so they got carried away in the stagecoach back to his hotel, but again they had ran out of time.

Peter carefully removed the pins from her hair and combed his fingers through it. She kissed his chest in gratitude.

“You prefer it loose?” she asked.

“Like the day I met you.”

“No matter what my nanny tried, at the end of the day, my hair was always a mess because you kept throwing bed sheets and empty flour sacks over my head to make me disappear.”

“It’s a shame you have to dye it.”

“Only for the train journey. By the time you join me and Ingwer in Romania, it will have faded out.”

“Still, don’t be too thorough in changing your appearance.” He raised her chemise to look underneath.

“Oi!”

Refusing to get off the chair, he stretched his arm as far as he could to grab the silver tray at the other hand of the table. 

“Have you ever tasted Absinthe?” he asked. “No? You’re missing out.”

“I’m sure you shall remedy the situation.”

As he poured, herbal fragrances rose from the liquor.

He brought a cube of sugar to her lips. “Suck.”

She held his gaze as she licked both the sugar and the fingers holding it, then wrapped her lips around it.

“Minx.”

He kissed her, the cube between their mouths, granules of sugar coated their tongues.

Then they each drank from the same glass. Jennie grimaced, but asked for more.

His eyes never left her, still incredulous that she was here with him, at last. But a question tainted his happiness.

“Something’s on your mind, Peter.”

“Aye. How did you know about his first wife?” 

“A little birdie told me.” 

Jennie drank some more while she gathered her thoughts. He stroked her arms to reassure her of his support.

“Since we met again, I’ve been hearing this whistling, at first I thought it was a bird in the house, but then I realized it was more like a human imitating a bird’s song. The song of the goldfinch. Then we had our secret meeting at my father’s house. When I got home, Richard was in one of his moods because I’d arrived late. And I heard that twitter again even before I heard him coming my way, and I realized it had been warning me all along.”

“Are you saying someone has been spying on us? Someone knows, in your house?”

“No. Oh, gosh Peter, I don’t know what to think. I always refused to believe. After Mother died, I refused to hear her… but she was always there, looking over me.” 

“You mean…?”

Jennie nodded and looked up to ward off tears. 

“You see, we’d come up with a plan, but I— I had this feeling that we would need more. Leverage, you know. Against Richard. I was desperate for something, anything, to help us abscond safely. So that night I listened for real.”

“You talked to your deceased mother?” 

“It’s not that easy, it wasn’t a conversation exactly, more like clues, signals, I had to decipher. And they all pointed to his first wife.”

Peter was gobsmacked by this revelation.

“Peter? Do you think I’m crazy?”

“Hell, if anyone else had told me this.” He ran a hand through his hair and blew out a puff of breath. “But I believe you, Jennie. I think-- even if we don’t like to admit it-- we’ve both known for a long time that some things can’t be explained rationally.”

They snuggled closer on the chair. And they talked about their past and their future. About their home in Northumberland and the one they would build in Romania. About their own parents and the parents they might become. About the magic they had witnessed and the one they would create together.

Before long, Peter filled a second glass with a generous amount of Absinthe. Between sugary kisses and sips of liquor, their hands roamed each other’s body. 

They knew each other’s minds already, now they enjoyed this physical intimacy. 

Jennie was tipsy, she’d never experienced that kind of drunkenness. A clear-headed form of inebriation that multiplied the effect of every touch. After a brush of his fingers, she felt each hair on her arm lift, each cell of her skin sizzle. His black-painted nails dragged over her thigh, and she felt it deep inside her, to the marrow of her bone, a delicious pressure. 

Peter had built quite a tolerance over the years, and suspected his own lightheadedness was caused by his lover rather than the alcohol.

Jennie kicked off the blanket as the room was hot enough now. Her chemise slid off her shoulder, revealing the top of her breast. He couldn’t resist the appeal of her flesh. He dipped a sugar cube in absinthe and trailed it gently across her skin. His tongue followed the path and farther still, dragging down the cloth to tease her nipple to a peak.

“Do the other.”

“Who am I to refuse?”

She drank the last of the glass while he traced swirls over her breasts. To refill the glass, she straddled his legs. Peter took the opportunity to grab her bum. He pulled her forward so their crotches met. He was hard. They grinded lazily, still kissing and drinking. 

She lost herself in the exploration of his torso, the taut skin of his stomach, the ripple of his ribs, the soft hair over his pectorals, the pulse beating in his throat. She covered his neck with sloppy kisses as she rolled her hips over him in languid circles. The silk of his underwear felt divine, and she soaked through it with her arousal.

His hand still on her bum slid between her legs. She canted her hips back so his fingers might enter her. Her head dropped to his shoulder with a moan. 

“I love playing with you.”

“I love the way you play with me.”

He added a second finger, and Jennie started meeting his movements, rubbing against him every time. 

“Faster.”

“Like this?”

“Yes!” Her nails dug in his shoulders. “Oh, but I would rather with you in me.”

“Go on, then.”

He raised his hip to help her lower his underwear, and she guided his cock into herself.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered as she slowly sank down on him.

Jennie’s giggles turned into a moan.

“It should have always been like this.”

She rested her forehead against his, ragged breaths mingled in the space between their lips.

“Let’s never be apart.”

“Never again.”

He claimed her mouth, and plunged up into her. And then there was nothing lazy or slow about their lovemaking, but a run for the ultimate pleasure. Jennie held on to the wings of the chair and bounced on him, encouraged by Peter’s compliments and grunts. The chair creaked and scraped the wooden floor with each feverish thrust.

“Oh, good Lord,” she moaned,

Suddenly, the chair toppled over. 

After a second of shock, they burst out laughing.

“Are you alright?”

“Aye.”

She got on her knees to stand up, but Peter was quicker, he grabbed her hips from behind and impaled her right back on his cock. His pelvis smacked against her backside. Her eyes rolled back in pleasure.

“Don’t stop.”

She met each of his frenetic thrusts, black dots danced before her eyes. When he bit her shoulder, she exploded. Her whole body quavered. He continued pounding into her with abandon until he shouted her name and emptied himself. He sagged against her, and she held him close, caressing his hair and whispering words of love in his ear.

*

Just as Peter was drifting off to sleep, someone knocked at the door. They startled and exchanged a panicked glance. The knock was repeated with more urgency.

“Er, give me a minute,” Peter shouted.

Jennie sprung to her feet, gathered her clothes and hid in the armoire. Peter slipped on his underwear and a robe.

The Earl stood on the other side of the door, and he entered the room without an invitation.

“Bloody hell, what are you doing here at this hour?”

The Earl scanned the room. Peter had to think fast.

“Did Jen-- the countess come back?”

“Oh, she was never very far, was she?”

Peter swallowed thickly. “She stayed in London where her sire is, I presume.”

“You see, Vincent, Iphigenia was supposed to bring me great power. I killed for her, do you understand that? Then someone else came along and offered me more than communication with the dead. He offered me eternal life if I did his bidding.”

“What?”

“Please come in, Jerry, sir,” the Earl said. 

A stranger walked in, dressed like a common man, but exuding grace, and the Earl bowed to him. His eyes were so dark pupil and iris were indistinguishable.

At the sight of him, Peter’s blood ran cold. He staggered back, patting every surface for a weapon.

“No, it can’t be.”

“Little Peter McHoolihee,” the stranger said with a Mediterranean accent. A menacing smile graced his lips. 

Peter pointed a shaking finger. “You-- you killed my parents.”

“Yes. And now I will kill your beloved.” He sniffed the air and walked towards the armoire, already licking his lips.

Adrenaline rushed through Peter’s veins. He yelled and jumped on Jerry’s back. Jennie opened the armoire, smacking the door into the vampire’s face. Peter’s weight pulled him back, and Jerry tripped over the fallen arm chair. He roared like a beast. His impossibly wide mouth revealed sharp teeth. Peter scampered off to his trunk of antiques. 

Jerry lunged towards Jennie with inhuman speed. She ducked. Peter attacked him with a stake. He hit the shoulder blade. Jennie grabbed a candelabra and set the vampire’s clothes on fire. The Earl jumped to his rescue.

The fire spread to the Earl’s clothes, but still he tried to save Jerry. But he had no such concerns and bit into the Earl’s neck for sustenance. 

Peter grabbed a pistol and blindly shot silver bullets at the two bodies aflame. 

The vampire and his devotee rolled on the floor. They ignited the rug and curtains. 

Jennie grabbed Peter’s hand, and they scampered off. On their way out, they shouted to wake up the other hotel guests.

They made it out safely. 

Standing on the sidewalk, wrapped in a bed sheet, they watched the hotel engulfed in flames. Snowflakes drifted down, twinkling in the fire light.

“It’s over,” Jennie whispered and hugged a shaking Peter. “We’re truly free.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you thought of this ship :D


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